


Promises Kept

by ironmessTM



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon-Compliant, Gen, Irondad, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Sensory Overload, To both Endgame and Far From Home, Tony Stark Has A Heart, hurt comfort, spiderson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-19 05:41:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20326027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironmessTM/pseuds/ironmessTM
Summary: So basically there's this thing/writing project/whatever you want to call it that I've been working on for a handful of days, (after I finally managed to stop procrastinating everything), one that's been both a dream and kind of a bear, and it's sucked my attention away from most of my other writing, so this had just kind of been sitting around, starting to collect dust. I came back to it now because I figured it was time I took a break, and while it isn't exactly the pinnacle of my amateur writing career, it was still more polished than I'd expected it to be, and after some very quick editing I thought I would put it up.Essentially, post Endgame and FFH, so yes, after That Movie's Ending, and That Post Credits Scene as well, Peter experiences a sensory overload, resulting from everything he'd been bottling up, and then...things ensue. Irondad things. Hurt comfort. Yeet.Thinking about this for a bit instead of the other project (which, when finished, will most likely be the next thing I post, whenever that is) has been refreshing, and a nice change of pace. I don't know that this is as well-edited or refined as it should be, but let me know what you think, and I hope you can enjoy regardless!





	Promises Kept

***

It had been one week since Peter’s identity had been revealed to the world. One week since everything had come crashing down on him, and everyone around him. But in truth, it’d been one week and eight months since everything had truly started to spin out of control. One week and eight months since everything had changed, since he’d been fighting to keep it all inside.

But now, thirty-seven weeks later, things were starting to bubble over.

Peter had entered the safehouse apartment where he and May now lived after a quick venture into the street, pulling the door closed behind him as he yanked his hood off his face and wiped a gathering sheen of sweat off his forehead. When he’d felt the headache start, he’d thought that he could try to just get some fresh air, and will it into going away, the way he’d done so many times in recent weeks. He thought he could ignore everything festering inside him, that if he just continued on like everything was fine, he could keep trying to trick the world into having been that way all along. But now, a thunderous pounding began to take his thoughts by storm, making his breaths short and raspy and his movements feverish as they became overburdened by a growing sense of panic. It was all too much. Every little piece of stimulus tearing across his neurons felt too full, and yet far too empty all at once. The line between everything and nothing began to pitch and blur, warping and in and out of focus along with everything else he failed to recognize.

He’d stopped worrying about these moments, moments he hadn’t experienced in years. The moments when stress and anxiousness and his powers compounded; joined forces, in a way, and trapped him in a special little hell of his very own. When everything became too much, when all the sights, sounds, smells, tastes and touches garnered more strength than they ever should have had, breathing down his neck and pooling in his blood. When he was being bombarded on all sides, pressed down and shoved back, but had never felt more isolated, more cut off from the world he’d mistakenly thought he’d known. When, with every passing moment, it felt like another piece of him was burning away, the matches being struck and carelessly dropped upon gasoline by gleeful demons somewhere deep down within him. When all the noises, cars in the late-evening traffic flow, snippets of voices, and the frantic beating of his own heart ran and choppily blended into a deafening roar, grasping him tightly by the sides of his sweat-drenched face seemingly as though it’d never let go. When memories, memories he wished so badly would remain buried away, came back to haunt him in more vivid intensity than he felt he could bear. Visions of his parents being gone and the loneliness they left him in their wake, of his Uncle Ben bleeding out onto the icy sidewalk. Of Tony Stark dying silently in his arms, and then lying empty, and _gone,_ just out of his reach. Piercing reminders of all the things Peter could’ve done, should’ve done, but didn’t do, and how, when taken together, those things meant everything that happened was his fault, every. Single. Time. 

And how, if he couldn’t deal with the weight of his losses and mistakes, then he surely deserved them tenfold.

He was jerked out of his haze of thoughts when he heard approaching footsteps, each footfall like a dagger to his ears. He grabbed the side of his head and gasped, the thunderous sound of the apartment door falling shut practically slamming into him as he fell back against the wall behind him. “Peter?” May’s voice rang out, every little fluctuation in her voice distorting and magnifying into a high-pitched cacophony in the air before his eyes. “Peter, you wouldn’t believe what just happened down the hall.”

“Ah…” Peter whimpered hoarsely, trying in vain to steady himself against the assault of stimulus. _TooloudtooloudtooloudtooLOUD._

“Peter?” May said again, turning the corner and seeing him struggling to find purchase against the wall. “Peter, what’s wrong?” May asked, and Peter’s whole body visibly flinched, staggering backwards and nearly falling. May’s face was worried, but laced with understanding as she stepped back and gently whispered, “Sensory overload?” Peter just barely managed a nod in response, trying and failing to steady his breathing. May reached out to lightly hold his cheek, to provide him with whatever semblance of comfort she could possibly hope to offer, but before Peter even realized he’d done it, one trembling hand was clenched tightly around May’s wrist; holding it aloft inches away from his face as his fingers burned, overwhelmed from the sensation of touch. His eyes were wide and bloodshot, his heart racing feverishly as he felt his thoughts begin to descend and disappear completely beneath insurmountable waves of panic. He felt so unstable, so unbalanced, doubting every frantic thought he felt fly by and didn’t know what to think, what he was thinking. He was panicked and he was panicking and it hurt and why wouldn’t everything just _stop?_

He released May’s arm with a jagged sort of motion, realizing the strength with which he was restraining her, and soundlessly ran; ashamed that she’d seen him like this, and even more so ashamed that he was like this to begin with. He locked himself inside his room, yanking his curtains shut and shakily pulling his comforter over his head, the waning daylight through the dark fabric over the windows washing the room with a dusky, ashen shadow. He squeezed his eyes so tightly shut he felt he saw stars, clenched his fists so forcefully his knuckles cracked, but in this moment, Peter could barely feel anything. This…distance, this feeling of absence and absence of feeling, it was like he was in the epicenter of a storm and yet miles away all at the same time. He didn’t know what to think, didn’t know what to _do,_ didn’t know how to make all of this go away. 

He just…he just wanted it to stop.

It continued on, the minutes and hours and the ambient sound of May’s worried pacing all bleeding together until Peter seemed to forget what time was entirely. But eventually, long after the color had bled from the world around him and long after Peter had felt anything but everything, a soft rumbling cut through the chaos, the gentle, buttery sound working to sooth his ears and dulling the sharp edges of everything he was experiencing. Peter could’ve sworn he’d heard his name, looking up from beneath the blanket as though there was someone he could see. Given the new focus, his headache quelled just enough for Peter to slowly slip his head out from beneath the heavy dark sheets, and he was greeted by the sight of a soft light emanating through the room, as warm and rich as though the air were laced with honey. He looked to the side, rubbing his throbbing eyes, but when he saw who was now perched next to him at the edge of the bed, he froze in place, his heart twisting and lurching within his chest.

“T-_Tony?”_

***

Tony had made a place for himself in the world, and when he was gone, he found himself watching those left in his wake try to fill the void now in his place. 

He couldn’t see everything, but he saw enough. 

He saw Morgan wondering where her father was now; too young, too innocent in the ways of the world to process the loss she and the rest of her family were experiencing. Or perhaps, Tony fathomed, the simplicity with which she saw her world made her the most sensible of them all. He saw Pepper trying to take on his responsibilities alongside the ones she already had, and Rhodey and Happy dutifully pitching in through their own grieving as much as possible. He hadn’t seen much of Peter, but something rang in his head, consuming a sizable portion of his rumination from that moment forward. It was Peter, throwing himself away, insisting that Mister Stark would never have believed in him, that he couldn’t possibly be worth believing in.

As Tony had looked down at his lost, vulnerable, little boy being bombarded by all sides by everything he should never have had to experience, he’d imagined being able to reach down and hold Peter in his arms; let himself wonder what he could possibly say or do to try to make it better. He’d been thinking about this for what felt like an eternity. Now, he saw Peter in pain once again. Only this time, instead of just wondering what he would do…

He found that he had a chance to actually find out.

"Oh, kid..." he whispered, cupping his son’s jaw lovingly in one smooth hand. "Everything’s going to be okay."

“M-Mister Stark, I-I–” Peter started, tripping over the beginnings of an apology.

“Shh…shh…it’s okay, kid, I’ve got you. I’m here, I’m not going anywhere. I know that look; you’ve got nothing to be sorry for. Okay?”

“How…h-how-how are you here?” Peter asked quickly, worriedly; so desperate for this to be real. “Are you…a-are you in my head?”

“No, kid, it’s me. I promise you, it’s really me.”

“Y-you…it’s really you.” he said, breathless, letting himself ease into his mentor’s touch with the beginnings of a wobbling smile. Tony nodded, gazing at him so tenderly it made Peter’s heart ache.

"Oh, Peter..." he murmured, whispering heart-wrenchingly quietly as he ran his fingers tenderly through his son's hair. "Were you really so sure I didn't believe in you?"

“I…I didn’t…” Peter started, trailing off and looking away. “Why did you?” he whispered at last, meeting Tony’s gaze with brimming eyes and a grief-rich expression. “Why did you believe in me?”

“I…” Tony exhaled the way he always did, looking briefly to the ceiling before refocusing on the lost little Peter sitting in front of him; waiting, hoping, praying that what Tony could tell him would be enough. “Most people,” he started, the gears in his head turning as he wove together what he needed to say, thought through what Peter needed to hear. “ they believe in others because it’s easy to. Because they look at these…untouchable figures of the media, these all-powerful entities, these characters on the big screen, and see either themselves, or something they want. It’s how the world _works,_ it’s how the world always _has_ worked, and it’s probably how the world _will_ work.”

“So…you…saw yourself, in me?”

“Bear with me, kid, I swear I’ve got a point coming. The _point,_ is, that that’s how _most_ people believe in others. Now, me? I think I’ve made it pretty damn clear I’m not most people. I’ve had a long time to do it, and I’d like to think I’ve done it well. What I saw in you, Peter? I didn’t see _me,_ with my…my _ego,_ my need for validation, the rest of my laundry list of character defects; no, I didn’t see any of that. I saw…I saw someone with a good heart, who had the potential to be so, much, _better,_ than I ever could. I didn’t see what I wanted, what was easy. What was easy, well, easy at the time would’ve been Steve Rogers just agreeing with me, or stumbling across someone exactly like him who could take his place and make all of us forget anything had happened that we didn't like. No, I saw what I _needed,_ in the form of a plucky, fifteen-year-old kid, with a good head on his shoulders and the potential to make that happen. I didn’t see…I didn’t see the present, I didn’t see a _reflection,_ in you. For one of the first times in my life, I saw the future, and it wasn’t ripping me to shreds. I saw something new and improved, the kind of special someone with great power _and_ great responsibility. So, kid, at the end of all that; what the hell made you think I didn’t believe in you? What, the _hell,_ made you think I hadn’t placed my chips on you for the long run? Yeah, sure, even dead I’m the hero, my one last egotistical mark on the world, but you…you’re so much _more_ than that.” he paused, one hand on Peter’s cheek and the other at the base of his skull. Then he slowly leaned in, gently pressing a kiss to the crown of Peter’s head. “_So_ much more.” he murmured, finished with the monologue and praying it’d worked, that it’d been at least in part the right thing to say. 

Peter didn’t know what to think. He felt something lighten in his chest, his burdens being stripped away word by word and getting replaced with a load Tony could see, the kind of cloud-like load that he knew Peter had been born to bear. _Hope._ Peter had forgotten what it felt like, what anything felt like beyond the numbing waves of shattering grief he’d held so close, and it was as though he was slowly being freed all at once. Before he knew it, he’d fallen forward, thrusting himself into Tony’s arms and holding him tight as he sobbed into his chest. But unlike before, these weren’t the sobs of desolation, or sobs ridden with the sadness he’d been holding back so long. These were the sobs of someone who’d finally felt a semblance of closure. These were the sobs of someone whose light was being breathed back into them, little by little, bit by bit, moment by moment. Someone who no longer completely felt like they needed to feel the crushing weight of everything they’d lost, every moment of every day, in order to fulfill something they’d lost sight of but clung onto regardless.

“Tony.” he sobbed, clutching at his mentor’s shirt and pulling it against his cheek. The two of them sat like this, the silence rich with comfort and everything Peter needed most. “Tony,” he said more softly after some time, no longer feeling the reassuring warmth of the older man’s touch. “…Tony?” he breathed at last, forcing himself to open his eyes once the only heartbeat he could hear was his own.

When he did, the rich golden lighting had faded back to a pale grey, and he’d awoken to the stark realization that he was alone; lying sideways on his mattress and tightly, desperately grasping a tangled mess of comforters, as though by doing so he could possibly hold onto everything else that he loved. “Tony…” he sniffled quietly into the empty room, his head bowed and his eyes sliding shut as bits of dust floated around him in the thin stream of light that trailed through the window. “Tony, you promised.” he whispered, knowing full well that his childish words would do nothing, nothing to remedy the fact that Tony wasn’t really back, hadn’t really been there at all. That maybe he’d never find closure after all, that maybe the hope he’d felt was little more than a mirage, a desperate manifestation of wishful thinking deep within his subconscious. 

“You promised.” 

He sat, almost holding vigil, until the faint smell of pancakes crept into his room from beneath the door and he realized that he was practically starving. He got up with a distant sigh, shoving the knotted sheets aside, and was about to open the door when he stopped with his fingers still closed around the handle. He noticed something poking out at the edge of his bed, and slowly walked back, anxious as to what it could be. He carefully pulled the object loose, and realized it was a small slip of thin, excruciatingly light paper. As he read it, tears began to silently pool in his eyes, because maybe, just maybe, it hadn’t been a lie after all. That maybe, just, _maybe,_ things would turn out okay after all.

_Take care of yourself, Underoos. -TS _

_Take care of yourself._

***


End file.
